


DC9: Finders Keepers

by WichitaRed



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WichitaRed/pseuds/WichitaRed
Summary: Finders Keepers: Travelling across Kansas makes the guys a bit melancholy, until they run into an old pal. However, some old pals should never be ran into.Destiny’s Cycle (DC) follows the Outlaw days.. what does Destiny have in store. Each month, I get a challenge, and then the cycle continues. You can follow KC, HH, & the gang through their adventures. DC does link together, but some tales stand on their own. Yet, its building its own world history, inside jokes, characters, places, etc. I hope you enjoy DC. Feedback WELCOMED!





	DC9: Finders Keepers

 

 

“Finders Keepers”

 

 

 

The rivers sandy bottom rose up in small, humped back islands as it snaked westward with stunted willows and thick, barked cottonwood trees clinging to its crumbling, flood ravaged banks. Out beyond, the tall grass waved. A never ending, whispering brown-green sea, that made the land appear flat, mile after mile of flatness. However, a full day’s ride had already revealed this as untrue; for beneath the grass, the dry land rolled giving way to wide basins and sharp crevices. Within the dirt, where the roots grew so deep, forcing their way between lumpy, jagged slabs of limestone that randomly erupted baring their white bones to the sky were large, mouthed burrows created by the creatures of the plains.

 “Nice area,” Heyes said, while searching the flickering cottonwood leaves, finally finding the golden breasted bird, who was singing. “A Meadowlark; thought it was. Hey, you remember how they would….” His words trailed away and he turned his face away from Kid Curry.

 Thinking back to when they were boys and how the inquisitive birds would perch on fence posts, watching them with quick, little twists of their heads while singing their bright, warbling song; Curry swallowed hard, softly saying, “I remember.”

 “Like I said; nice area to ride through,” Heyes responded, still looking out at the sluggish, flowing river.

 “Figured it would be and we’re going to follow it all the way across the Colorado line.”

 Heyes looked back, “you study a map somewhere?”

 “Nope, talked with a gentleman named Mead, said he used to do some big buffalo hunts and knows the land well.”

 “Hmpf,” was the singled grunted answer.

 “Yeah, well, Mr. Mead told me, this way we’d have plenty of water crossing the open prairie and be able to restock at the lil’ burgs that have been cropping up alongside the Arkan _sas_ River.”

 Drolly Heyes said, “Arkan _saw_ River, Kid.”

 “Nope, I meant Arkan _sas_ , Mead informed me, it’s what folks around here call it.”

 Heyes frowned over at his cousin.

 “What?”

 “We are no longer from around here.”

 “I thought that, too.” Curry shoved his hat back a bit, “anyway…he told me they all pronounce it that way because it flows through Kansas first, and they figure it is the _OurKansas_ River, no matter what those Rebs have to say about it.”

 One dark eyebrow lifted, “That so.”

 Curry nodded, “kind of thought it might be better, to sound like the locals when they feel that way.”

 “Might be.”

The river bent back on itself and at the point of the bend, several large cottonwoods were bunched together, their massive roots rolling out across the ground like slack, circus tent ropes. Automatically, they guided their horses toward the grass, not wanting them to catch a shoe on the twisted, thick bark. Moving into the bright sunlight, Curry reached up again, this time tugging his hat down low to shield his pale eyes.

 “Go on and raise that other hand while you’re at it. You do the same, Heyes.”

 They froze, their eyes slanted to each other.

 “This here double-aught does not care what you do, ‘cause this close, it’s bound to do more than wing you, no matter what you blame well try.”

 Both outlaws hands reached skywards and shifting in his saddle to get a look, Heyes said, “Sir, I do--” 

 Except he was cut off, “Uh Huh! Do not be movin’ none!”

 Heyes stilled, his face becoming even stiller, his dark eyes narrowing.

 “I got ‘em, Harold.” The unknown voice said, almost as jubilantly as a child who knows he has achieved his goal. “It is safe for you and rest of the boys to come on across.”

Four riders emerged from the other side of the river; the lead rider wore a fine cut, broadcloth suit. Well, it had once been a fine suit, although now it had the shine of being worn nearly thin. He smiled widely as his horse splashed across the low river, the riders around him; all had their pistols pointed at Curry and Heyes.

What caught Heyes’ eye was the moving glint of the watch chain stretched across the man’s rounded belly and the swaying bear claw attached to it. The corner of Heyes’ mouth dipped his dimple appearing and defensively, he burst into a large smile, “Harold MacKeefe, good to see you.”

“You are supremely correct, Heyes.” Harold responded, touching a finger to the brim of his flat hat. “Now go on and reach over with your left hand and toss the Kid’s pistol aside.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Not recalling, giving you permission to jabber on like you do, simply do as instructed.”

Hannibal Heyes’ jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring and leaning out, he grasped the Peacemaker’s smooth, wood handle.

Harold raised his voice, “Heyes! Do not be forgetting, both your posters illustriously have labeled you as ‘dead or alive’.”

Sighing Heyes flicked his wrist, the pistol twisting in the air to land before their horses.

As he was doing this, a man, with a face as pockmarked as a bad road, snagged his newly purchased Schofield from its skid. Smiling smugly up at the pair of outlaws, he walked on retrieving the Colt.

“Well done, Barton.”

Barton swung round to Harold, smiling like a hound dog being offered a bone.

“Very well done, go on and bring that jewelry.”

Barton loped over, handing up the shiny six-shooters and Harold patted him on the shoulder, slipping the pistols in his waist belt. “Now you two reach on back and grab hold of your cantle seats.”

Curry’s eyes narrowed, all softness disappearing from his face; and when he reached back, his wrists were, promptly and fiercely, tied with a rawhide thong. Heyes did the same, but not before, straightening his hat and tightening the stampede strings, to hold it in place.

“Always was one to buck an order, weren’t you Heyes… just any way you could.” Harold MacKeefe stated with a shake of his head. “Walter, I deem, it would be best if two rawhides were used to tie him, he can be slippery as a wet snake.”

His patience fully exhausted and the pinching of the ever tightening thongs on his wrists, doing little to improve his humor, Heyes snarled. “What’s this all about, Harold?”

“Why it is what it is always about,” Harold replied, placing his folded hands atop his belly, “turning a profit.”

Curry looked fast to his partner, but Heyes having come to the conclusion, Harold intended to use them to open a mail car safe, was trying to read the man, “Last time we spoke, you said you were done robbing trains.”

“Still am,” Harold said, waving a hand toward the sea of grass, “found it far easier to perpetuate my heists out there. Regular Joe’s tend to not fight back like them hired guards the trains have incorporated.”

Realization settled in and Heyes inhaled, the bridge of his nose wrinkling.

“I see my plans have become apparent to you.”

Under his breath, Curry asked, “Heyes, what’s going on?”

Heyes’ tongue flicked across his lower lip and he turned to face his cousin, “Harold over there, intends to turn us in for the profit of our rewards.”

Curry’s blue eyes turned sharp as a winter sky, his gaze shifting to Harold MacKeefe.

“Well, now, I am right glad, I have your guard dog leashed, Heyes; he looks like he has some bite to him.”

Curry’s shoulders tightened, the muscled cords in his neck standing out rigid.

“Easy, Kid,” Heyes said, really almost cooed knowing behind Harold’s amiable, smiling attitude stood a cut-throat killer.

Walter looked from one outlaw to the other and laughed heartily, hitching their horses up behind his own, and a sullen looking man’s wide-hipped bay.

For hours, they had been led, with Harold’s gang keeping them a good distance apart, and the wind had long ago blown Curry’s hat off. Looking back as they paused from coming down a sloping ridgeline, Heyes saw his cousin’s skin was pinking up like a strawberry on a vine.

“Harold, favor?”

The bushy bearded man rode closer.

“What could you possibly desire, Heyes?”

“Like to say, release us, but certain that isn’t a favor you’d be willing to grant.”

“You are quite precise in your assumption,” he grinned the gloating smile of bully on top, “as this is very much a finders keepers situation, and I plan on keeping you both until you pay off.” He scratched at his beard, “And, I mean that. I will keep hold of both of you, even if you force my hand and my boys are required to slice your throats. Although, I do hope it doesn’t come to that, as it wouldn’t take you long to start stinking in this sun.”

Heyes lips pursed tight and he smiled, “speaking of the sun, my favor is… could one of your boys set Kid’s hat back on, cause he is broiling under it.”

Harold’s eyes drifted to Curry, who was sullenly glaring at the ground, the back of his neck a proverbial beet red, “James, see to it.”

A burly, farmhand looking man, in a rough home spun shirt, rode over and grabbing the brown hat from Curry’s back, he set it atop his head. Then, with a grin, he slid the stampede knot up tight. However, having suspected this action, Curry had flexed his neck and jaw, so when he was released the knot was not gagging him.

Turning his horse, Harold looked pointedly at Heyes.

With a smile, that was menacing as wolverine advancing from his den Heyes said, “Thank you, Harold.”

 

 

           


End file.
